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Still within my musing mind,
Wisdom's secret stores I find,
And, little noticed, sweetly feed
On hidden manna, meat indeed,
Blessed thoughts I never told
Unconsidered, uncontrollid,
Rushing by as thick and fast
As autumn leaves

upon

the blast, Or better like the gracious rain Dropping on some thirsty plain. And is not this to be a king, To carry in my heart a spring Of ceaseless pleasures, deep and pure, Wealth cannot buy, nor power procure ? Yea, -by the poet's artless art, And the sweet searchings of his heart, By his unknown unheeded bliss, “My mind to me a kingdom is.”

Place me on some desert shore
Foot of man ne'er wandered o'er,
Lock me in a lonely cell
Beneath some prison citadel ;
Still, here or there, within I find
My quiet kingdom of the Mind :
Nay,—mid the tempest fierce and dark,
Float me on peril's frailest bark,

My quenchless soul could sit and think
And smile at danger's dizziest brink :
And wherefore ?-God, my God, is still
King of kings in good and ill,
And where He dwelleth-everywhere
Safety supreme and peace are there,

,
And where He reigneth-all around-
Wisdom, and love, and power are found,
And reconciled to Him and bliss,

My mind to me a kingdom is.”

Thus for my days; each waking hour
Grand with majesty and power,
Every minute rich in treasure,
Gems of peace, and pearls of pleasure.
And for my nights—those wondrous nights !
How manifold my Mind's delights,
When the young truant, gladly caught
In its own labyrinths of thought,
Finds there another realm to range,
The dynasties of Chance and Change.
O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
Their
name,
their

very essence, seems
A tender light, not dark nor clear,
A sad sweet mystery wild and dear,
A dull soft feeling unexplained,
A lie half true, a truth half feigned :

O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
When Reason, with inebriate gleams,
Looses from his wise control
The prancing Fancies of the soul,
And sober Judgment, slumbering still,
Sets free Caprice to guide the Will.
Within one night have I not spent
Years of adventurous banishment,
Strangely groping like the blind
In the dark caverns of my

mind ?
Have I not dwelt, from eve till morn,
Lifetimes in length for praise or scorn,
With fancied joys, ideal woes,
And all sensation's warmest glows,
Wondrously thus expanding Life
Through seeming scenes of peace or strife,
Until I verily reign sublime,
A great creative king of Time?

And there are people, things, and places,
Usual themes, familiar faces,
A second life, that looks as real
As this dull world's own unideal,
Another life of dreams by night,
That, still forgotten, wanes in light,
Yet seems itself to wake and sleep,
And in that sleep dreams doubly deep,

While those same dreams may dream anon,
Tangled mazes wandering on !
Yes, I have often, weak and worn,
Feebly waked at earliest morn,
As a shipwreck'd sailor, tost
By the wild waves on some rough coast,
Of perils past remembering nought
But some dim cataracts of thought,
And only roused betimes to know
That yesterday seems years ago!
And I can apprehend full well
What old Pythagoras could tell
Of other scenes, and other climes,
And other Selfs in other times;
For, oft my consciousness has reeld
With scores of “ Richards in the field,”
As, multiform, with no surprise,
I see myself in other guise,
And wonderless walk side by side
With mine own soul, self-multiplied !
If it be royal then to reign
Over an infinite domain,
If it be more than monarch can
To lengthen out the life of man,
Yea, if a godlike thing it be
To revel in ubiquity,
Is there but empty boast in this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is ?”

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-Peace, rash fool; be proud no more,
Count thy faults and follies o'er,
Turn aside, and note within
Thy secret charnel-house of Sin,
Thy bitter heart, thy covetous mind,
Evil thoughts, and words unkind :
Can so foul and mean a thing
Reign a spiritual King ?
Art thou not-yea thou, myself,
In hope a slave to pride and pelf?
Art thou not,-yea thou, my mind,
Weak and naked, poor and blind ?
Yea, be humble ; yea, be still ;
Meekly bow that rebel Will;
Seek not selfishly for praise ;
Go more softly all thy days ;
For to thee belongs no power,
Wretched insect of an hour,-
And if God, in bounteous dole,
Hath grafted life upon thy soul,
Know thou, there is out of Him
Nor light in mind, nor might in limb;
And, but for One, who from the grave
Of sip and death stood forth to save,
Thy mind, that royal mind of thine,
So great, ambitious, and divine,

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